


Pitch-Dark

by igrab



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 20:17:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igrab/pseuds/igrab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was preposterous, to have these thoughts, to feel this way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pitch-Dark

**Author's Note:**

> this follows with the book canon that they were in the mirkwood for several days, but other than that is movie-related.

The nights were the worst.

It then became pitch-dark--not what you call pitch-dark, but really pitch; so black that you really could see nothing. Bilbo tried flapping his hand in front of his nose, but he could not see it at all.

"Stop that," a low voice muttered, and Bilbo started, for he hadn't thought any of the others were awake. He should have known, though. They were all huddled together simply to keep track of one another, and the dwarf-king's voice and presence were unmistakable. When had he gotten so close? Bilbo could've sworn he'd put himself to bed at the opposite end of the group--and with good reason. He could feel the way Thorin looked at him, after what he privately termed The Hug. He could feel that intensity like a physical touch along his back, his shoulders, the tips of his ears and the curl of his hair at the nape of his neck.

Whatever the others said, he was no blushing virgin (though perhaps he was only fooling himself if he thought that book-learnings could compare to practical experience, of which he had none). He knew what those looks meant. It was how he'd looked at the handsome dwarf from the start, practically begging him to--to what?

_To see_ , Bilbo thought, and was so wrapped up in himself that he hadn't noticed the way he'd slowly leaned in the direction of Thorin's voice, slowly fetched himself up against a warm side in that awful, soul-consuming blackness. _To see me as something he might find worthy. Only I do believe he does, now, and that perhaps makes it all the more terrifying still._

It was preposterous, to have these thoughts, to feel this way. He was a burglar-for-hire, nothing more, and by all accounts they barely knew each other. It was ridiculous. It was a distraction. It was--

"You're cold." There was that voice again. Somehow, whenever the dwarf spoke, it burrowed deep down inside of Bilbo and sprouted roots, twining through him and around him and holding him perfectly captive. He had no defense against it; and besides, he really was quite cold.

"Thank you," Bilbo mumbled, and he felt a great warm weight settle about his shoulders in the form of Thorin's beautiful fur-edged coat. He huddled, but found he missed the other warmth, the warmth of the dwarf himself.

An arm wrapped around Bilbo's shoulders in the inky blackness, and Thorin Oakenshield pulled him close.

His grip was tight and strong; too tight, but Bilbo was grateful for it. The dark seemed to have eyes, but with Thorin holding him, he couldn't possibly feel afraid.

"Thank you," he whispered, again. It seemed the only thing he could say.

Warm breath touched his ear, and the prickle of a long beard. "I am, and will always be, at your service."

It was the customary dwarf greeting, to be sure, but to Bilbo's ears, it was a great many other things as well. _I've got you_ , it said. _I'm in your debt_ , it said. _I'll protect you_ , it said. _I'm yours._

So it was Bilbo who, in the dark, in that pitch-dark that's more than black where all the mysteries of the world are hidden, turned in and tipped his chin up and searched for Thorin's face with both hands, fingers marching up the length of his beard and finding purchase on rough cheeks.

Thorin hadn't moved. Was he--? Did this--? Had Bilbo gotten it all wrong?

A near-silent sigh, then, and Bilbo could feel it across his lips, making his toes curl down in his little boots. "Silly hobbit," came the velvet whisper, and then Thorin's were up against his, all soft and rough and warm and exciting all at once. They melted into each other in the darkness, and Bilbo could hear his heart pound in his ears and nothing existed but Thorin, Thorin, Thorin.

When the time came to change watch and they both curled against each other to sleep, the king put his arm around Bilbo and drew him so close his weight seemed to sink him into the ground. "Thank you," Thorin said. The words took root in the pit of his stomach and curled and curled and curled.

Bilbo let out a little sigh and his face pressed close and what he _said_ was "No, thank you," but it was a great many other things as well. _I'm sorry,_ it said. _I'll follow you,_ it said. _I'm yours._


End file.
